


Broken from Someone Else's Bonds

by roswyrm



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous Slash, Burns, Happy Ending, M/M, Violence at Walls, huh, i keep writing happy sequels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roswyrm/pseuds/roswyrm
Summary: anon: Honestly? I would go ham for a follow up to the short fic where Zolf gets kidnapped and the kidnappers send letters from him to Hamid?





	Broken from Someone Else's Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> all is well and good again!!! Working Title: _since ur ass wanna act a Pair Of Noid_

Ameline should have asked for his name.

She didn’t because of course, she didn’t, why should she? He’d smiled a charming (oddly familiar) smile and shown her Meritocratic Identification that could’ve granted him access to just about anywhere (authorised _personally_ by _Apophis)_ and asked politely to see the Harlequin they had in questioning. (His voice was familiar too, though in a more vague sense. Like deja vu, but if deja vu was just a bit to the left.) Ameline had nodded and chalked the familiarity up to her helm. Everyone seems similar when their voice is muffled by metal and viewed through slats of rust-red.

Ameline should have asked for his name, but she didn’t, and now she unlocks the door for him without the faintest idea of who he is.

(He’s even wearing the same colour as that opera singer was, the one time Ameline saw her. The diplomat looks like Aziza in a suit, and Ameline should have recognised that.)

The diplomat steps into the repurposed classroom with a faux-warmth in his sharp-toothed smile, and Ameline’s seen Taandet make that expression so many times, but the halfling in front of her makes it look even more intimidating, somehow. “Hello,” he says, “I believe you have some information that might be useful to me?”

(And that’s when Ameline finally managed to put two and two together. His voice had the same kind of magic that the soprano did: swirling around the edges but never actually coming to form. It even tilts the same way, leaving Ameline feeling about to fall across the suddenly slanted floor. The accents are different, but the voices are the same, and Ameline _should have asked for his name.)_

But it’s too late now, and it’s rapidly approaching the kind of blunder that might get Ameline thrashed when the Harlequin sits up in his cot and manages, “Hamid?” Ameline stands still, stays stoic, pretends she hasn’t been taunting the man in front of her with letters from the man beside her for literal months. The halfling stiffens, stands up straighter. Ameline bites her tongue beneath her helmet.

Hamid al-Tahan _(because that’s got to be who stands beside her)_ whispers, “Zolf?” Ameline bites her tongue harder, and the sting of her own blood is something she’s about to be forced into familiarity with, might as well start getting acquainted with it now. Hamid al-Tahan turns to her very slowly, and asks, “This is the Harlequin with information on the separatists?” Ameline nods silently. Hamid al-Tahan, who has been writing emotion-drenched letters to the Harlequin for months, raises his eyebrows. His jaw is clenched, heat emanates from him, and Ameline’s suddenly reminded of the way the soprano lit a cigarette with her bare fingers.

(She noticed Ameline watching, but out of armour, Ameline doesn’t cut a very imposing figure. Aziza had smiled, put that same finger to her lips in a _shh_ motion, and continued smoking.)

Hamid al-Tahan, who Ameline has personally lied to about the whereabouts and wellbeing of the man in front of them, is _not_ smiling. The Harlequin — Zolf Smith, according to letters written by the man _literally burning with rage_ beside her — stares blankly. Hamid al-Tahan moves to… Ameline doesn’t know, hug the Harlequin, or something sappy, but she reaches out an arm and stops him. “He’s dangerous,” she informs him. It’s not a lie. Zolf Smith is very dangerous when he’s in possession of a weapon, or any kind of divine magic. Hamid al-Tahan grabs her wrist and pushes it off of him, and Ameline can’t help the yelp that escapes her at the suddenly burning hot metal around her arm.

(She scrabbles to tear it off, her fingers protesting at the heat, her wrist screaming, and the bracer gets thrown to the floor with a clang. Ameline does her best not to whimper as she clutches at her arm. Laying On Hands only gets rid of the pain. The sticky red flesh of the burn stays more or less as is, only closing over a small bit.)

“Hamid,” repeats the Harlequin, and he scrambles back even as Hamid al-Tahan rushes forward. “You don’t– I’m not– there’s no—” Hamid al-Tahan, who has written in detail how much he regrets pulling away from their last hug so quickly, doesn’t stop. Hamid al-Tahan, who Ameline affected a pitchy vibrato in order to imitate, doesn’t heed the excuses, doesn’t heed the distance, doesn’t hesitate before grabbing the Harlequin’s hand and holding on _tightly,_ so tightly Ameline can see the skin turning white.

Ameline is going to have her head chopped off. Possibly by Nela. Or maybe she’ll be whipped. That’ll be fun. God, she should have just asked for his name. Hamid al-Tahan turns, and his frigid eyes are at odds with the heat filling the room. “He’s being released into the custody of me and my associates,” he orders firmly, in a tone that Ameline has heard Taandet use several times. It means _don’t argue, you won’t win._ The blessing of Mars is no small thing, but Ameline gets the feeling that it barely measures up to the direct authorisation of Apophis, at least under the eyes of any Meritocratic councils.

Ameline doesn’t argue; she won’t win. Maybe she’ll move to Poland. She hears it’s nice, this time of year. She really should have asked for his name. As is, she just nods silently, leaves the room to go file the necessary paperwork with the necessary people, biting her tongue all the while. She hears Hamid al-Tahan mumbling comfortingly and the Harlequin making excuses until she shuts the door. 

Ameline slams her non-burned fist into the wall.

Nela, ever the watchful guard, gives her a look. Ameline snarls, _“That was Hamid fucking al-Tahan,”_ because that’s probably the fastest way to get Nela to understand how badly Ameline has messed up.

Nela’s face screws up. “Wasn’t the Harlequin fucking Hamid al-Tahan?” Normally, Ameline would laugh. As is, she just storms off down the hall to find someone to release the Harlequin with _valuable information_ to a magician in a multicoloured suit. If it weren’t for the helm, Ameline would spit on the university’s floor.  
\---  
Ameline is in charge of the Harlequin’s release because of course, she is. She sets her jaw and bites her tongue and silently draws blood. Hamid al-Tahan is ignoring her, sending subtle glances to the dwarf Ameline is pushing along in a wheelchair. (Her wrist is doing better. Ameline expended the rest of her Lay On Hands, and Nela used half of hers, and her wrist is only mildly burned, now. Only first degree.) Zolf is doing very much the same thing, hands folded in his lap, watching them carefully. Occasionally watching the diplomat, but only for seconds at a time. God, Ameline feels like an extra in a bad romance novel.

Eventually, Hamid al-Tahan pipes up, “I know technically you’re being transferred into my custody, but you don’t have to stay with us. If you don’t want to.” He stares at his shoes as he says this, and the Harlequin stares at him. “We could always take you home. I-If you wanted. Or maybe somewhere for a holiday..?”

“It’s fine.” Ameline keeps pushing him. Taandet is standing sentry in the hall, and Ameline makes slightly desperate eye-contact with him. _Save me._ Taandet gives her a minute shrug. _Can’t._ The Harlequin, who has gone back to examining his hands, mumbles, “Home’s with you lot, anyway.” It sounds like he’s saying ‘home is where the heart is’ and Ameline almost gags.

Then she notices that the Harlequin looks up, and Hamid al-Tahan looks down, a disgusting amount of something goopy in their eyes. Ameline realises that _is_ what the Harlequin’s saying, and she _actually_ gags.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhhhh yeah come find me on tumblr @roswyrm i write stuff upon request. usually. i try, at least. i would just like to apologise to that one anon and also bittersweet-mojo who sent me prompts literal years ago that i still haven't answered. i've been trying but its just. Not. Doing That. sorry yall.


End file.
